Back to the Start
by BookkeeperThe
Summary: Draco doesn't have the best reactions when things don't go his way. Or, arguably, he has the best one of all.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: here's the thing, I've got ideas for future chapters, but they're going to be sporadic to say the least. That said, I think this stands pretty well on its own, so future chapters will be more like a collection of shorts than one flowing story. As always, enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

 **Based on post/117777839247/ooooh-take-me-back-to-the-start-sigh on apitnobaka's tumblr**

 **Warnings: elder Malfoys being mean to Dobby (off-screen) by use of ableist insults. Some language.**

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The thing was, Draco didn't lose well. Grace in defeat was not one of his strong points, especially when said defeat was accompanied by a sick, sinking sensation in his stomach that felt an awful lot like guilt. So his first thought, when he saw the headline in the morning paper, was,

 _Bloody Potter. Bloody Weasley. Bloody perfect fucking secret wedding of the bloody century._

He was also not naturally talented in self-reflection, but he had gotten a lot of practice in the past few years, so his second thought was,

 _Not their fault you spent the first seventeen years of your life with your head up your arse._

"Yes, well," he muttered aloud into the empty shop he was tending. He glared at the wedding photo some more. Bloody perfect Potter with his perfect robes and his perfect grin and his charmingly imperfect hair. If only he hadn't been such a bloody good judge of character. If only Draco hadn't been such a bloody prick. If only . . .

Huh. There was a thought. There was an exceptionally dangerous, daring thought. And not a little bit slippery and selfish, too.

So he had lost the game. It wasn't exactly fair, was it? He'd had all the wrong information going in. So why not call for a rematch?

Why not, indeed.

He looked down at Potter's photographic image, beaming at his bride, and thought,

 _You're one selfish fuck, Draco._

No. Well, yes. But it didn't need to be about him. Not entirely, anyway. He could do better. He could _be_ better. Stand up to his parents. Fight his own battles. Be his own person.

His hands were shaking against the counter. He could do this. He'd have to live through it all again – or maybe not _live_ through it at all – or, or –

Things could change. He could change things. Save people. Be the hero for once in his sorry life. He had always been clever, but his could be brave, too, then maybe, just maybe –

"Thaddeus!" he called back to the shop owner, trying to keep the waver out his voice. "We have a client looking for something specialized. Do we have any products that work with Time?"

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Draco woke up. He felt . . . odd. Somehow bigger and smaller at the same time. He had had a very peculiar dream. He hadn't much liked it. It had made him feel old.

"Draco, love, time to get up!"

"Yes, Mother," he called back, and was startled by the sound of his own voice. Surely it hadn't always been that high? But yes, of course it had, which was perfectly respectable. He was only eleven, after all.

How strange he felt. He wondered if this was what puberty was like.

"Quickly, dear, we're going to get your school things today," Mother said from outside his door.

"I'm coming!" Draco snapped, and immediately regretted his tone. "Sorry, Mother. Coming."

He jumped out of bed and threw on his favorite robes, the soft grey ones which Mother said brought out his eyes. He still felt wrong, awkward, but it was beginning to subside. Probably just a side effect of that dream, whatever it had been about. He could hardly remember now.

When he got down to the table, breakfast was already prepared. Dobby's doing, of course. And why did that thought send a jolt through his stomach?

". . . late with the toast again, stupid creature," Father was saying. "Sent him off for punishment, of course."

Mother was nodding in approval, but Draco had a thought that was slipping off his tongue before he really understood it.

"Why do we treat him so vilely, Father?"

Father frowned at him over the morning _Prophet_.

"He's a servant, Draco. He must obey us in all things, or be disciplined. Besides, it's not as if he's a wizard – or a witch," he added, with a nod to Mother. "He's not even human."

"Yes, but – " Draco stopped. He didn't know where he was going with this, only that he suddenly felt a horrible sort of empathy for the pitiful creature that cleaned and cooked and even punished itself for them.

"Don't worry," Mother said, getting up to steer him to his seat. "It will be quite some time before you're responsible for controlling him, dear. Would you like some toast?"

Draco ate in silence, without really tasting it. He didn't know what was happening, but he didn't like it. If this was what puberty was like it could sod off, he thought sulkily, spearing a whole sausage.

"Manners, Draco," Father corrected mildly, and Draco reluctantly picked up a knife.

Well. At least they were getting his school things today.

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He was left alone in Madame Malkin's. This was, of course, the plan, so as to avoid him getting dragged around purchasing dull things like books, but it felt significant to him. He couldn't place why. This was becoming a pattern today.

The bell above the door jingled.

"Back in a moment, dear," Madame Malkin said cheerily, before bustling off to the front of the shop and leaving him to stand stock still in a robe full of pins.

She returned a moment later with a boy. He was short and skinny and his hair was messy and he was wearing Muggle clothes. Not much to look at, really, but his bright green eyes met Draco's and Draco felt his stomach swoop in a way which was not entirely unpleasant.

Huh. Maybe that was what puberty felt like. He could live with that.

"My name's Draco Malfoy," he said, completely forgetting about the pins and holding out his hand. For the second time that day, he felt words spilling from his mouth before he really knew what he was saying. "Would you be my friend?"

The boy blinked at his outstretched hand. Then he grinned.

"Sure," he agreed, his handshake swift and certain. "I'm Harry."


	2. Chapter 2

It started with the Sorting Hat.

(Well, no. It started before Hogwarts, that day in Diagon Alley. But that was when he had met Harry, and held out his hand, and he would ever after say that it was his idea, so in his mind, it started with the Sorting Hat.)

Professor McGonagall placed the hat on his head. It slipped down over his eyes. He waited in the darkness.

" _Well hello, Mr. Malfoy."_

 _Hello,_ he thought.

" _And what do we have here? Something buried, I think. And what a clever idea. Very . . . Slytherin of you. Yes. Yes, I think –"_

 _I need to be brave,_ he – or, no, not quite he – thought.

" _Do you now."_

 _Yes,_ Draco thought, and it was true, he knew it was true, but he didn't know how he knew. _I need to be brave._

" _Very well. If you insist . . ."_

And then the hat was calling out the last word Draco would have expected a month ago, and he was stumbling down to the red and gold table amongst scattered applause, and he had a strange, fluttery feeling in his chest like he had just changed his entire life.

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His parents were not happy, but Harry was thrilled, so there was that.

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Weasley didn't like him, which suited him just fine, because he didn't like Weasley, either. Except Harry seemed to like both of them, for some godawful reason, which put everyone in an awkward position.

Harry was . . . odd. He was "They don't hate you, you know," and "Lay off, Ron," and "Wish I were good at Potions like you," but he was also, "You shouldn't say stuff like that, you know," and "Lay off, Draco," and "Wish you wouldn't be so rude." Draco was starting to think maybe his parents were wrong, about a lot of things, but about this in particular. He was starting to think this was what real friendship was like.

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Draco had bad dreams, sometimes. A lot the time. Dreams about his parents, pale and thin and terrified. Dreams about a woman, screaming, and somehow he knew it was Granger, the mud – the muggleborn who always had the answer. Dreams about Harry, furious, hating him. Dreams about fire.

Sometimes when he jerked awake in a cold sweat, he saw a small silhouette against the moonlit window and knew that Harry had dreams, too. Sometimes, that made it a little bit better.

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The Gryffindor Quidditch team was doing badly. Draco felt guilty about that, but he couldn't place why.

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Halloween arrived with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It was one of _those_ feelings, the ones he was starting to learn not to ignore. It unsettled him so badly that he could hardly focus in Charms class, but at least he was paired with Harry.

"What was the incantation again?"

"Er," said Harry, but thankfully Granger's voice floated up to them from where she was haranguing an unfortunate Weasley.

"Levi _o_ sa, not Levio _sa_!"

"There we go," said Harry, with a sheepish smile.

"Should've made friends with her," Draco said, watching Granger's feather float towards the ceiling.

It wasn't until later, much later, when the dread in his stomach had become a knot of panic and Quirrel was passed out on the floor and Harry was saying,

"Wait! Hermione. She doesn't know,"

that he remembered. She was a mudbl – a muggleborn. And an annoying one, to boot. Was he really going to risk his life for her?

Was he really going to let her die?

He had to be brave. Harry's eyes were bright and sure and Weasley's face was pale and guilty and there was a voice in the back of his head saying _he had to be brave._

"Alright," he said, and if his voice wavered, that was only to be expected. "Alright. Let's go."

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He didn't think anyone could say it went excellently, per se, but they weren't dead, and they weren't expelled, and Hermione was grateful and Harry was grinning and even Weasley – Ron – was giving him an awkward smile, and Draco was flushed and shaking but he was smiling, too.

His parents were going to be less than pleased, but his parents, he thought in a moment of reckless abandon, could sod off. After all, he thought, as Hermione caught his eyes with an uncertain twitch of her lips, after all, what did they know about anything?

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The issue was –

The issue was –

The issue was that his mother still sent him care packages and long letters and threatened to pull him out of school after the whole troll incident but there was an air of bewildered worry to it all, like she couldn't figure out quite where the mistake was made but there had definitely been a mistake and she was intent on rooting it out.

The issue was that no one sent Harry anything at all which Draco had just put down to him having to live with Muggles, but Hermione got letters from her parents every other Sunday like clockwork.

The issue was that he was still having nightmares, still having strange feelings that always held true, still feeling a terrible draw towards the forbidden third-floor corridor even though his spine prickled every time he thought about it.

The issue was –

The issue was –

Well, this week, the issue was that Hagrid had a dragon.

Which really shouldn't have been Draco's issue at all, but somehow it was. And so here he was, at a quarter to midnight, under a cloak which barely covered the four of them plus Norbert, hauling a crateful of adolescent dragon up the Astronomy Tower.

"This is stupid," he hissed the third time Weasley stepped on his foot.

"So's your face, but we live with it," Harry retorted.

Draco rolled his eyes.

"We're already breaking the rules, why don't we just – _wingardium leviosa._ "

"Oh," Hermione whispered, looking a little miffed that she hadn't thought of that herself.

"Because then there's a great suspicious box floating around for no reason," Weasley said.

"So? We're almost there. I'm not carrying it the rest of the way, are you?"

Weasley glared at him, but didn't volunteer, so Draco took that as agreement.

And, by the way, it worked out just fine. They got to the top of the tower without incident, and Charlie was right on time, and they watched him and his friends fly off with Norbert with a feeling of giddy exhilaration. It went off without a hitch.

. . . until they got to the bottom of the tower, anyway.

The cloak! They had forgotten the cloak!

Draco grabbed Harry's arm, the words on the tip of his tongue, when –

"You four! With me. Immediately."

McGonagall.

Draco groaned, burying his face in hands.

They would get detention for sure.

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This was the issue:

Draco was standing at the edge of a clearing, frozen in place, and Harry was frozen beside him. There was a _thing_ on the other side of the clearing, drinking blood from a creature so pure it almost shouldn't exist.

This was the issue:

The thing was raising its head. Harry was crying out in pain, knees buckling. Draco was still frozen in place.

This was the solution:

Draco grabbed Harry's hand and started to run, stumbling and tripping, through the forest. He kept an iron grip as Harry lagged behind him, still panting in pain. He thought, _you have to brave you have to be brave youhavetobebraveyouhavetobebrave._ He didn't let go.


	3. Chapter 3

This was Draco, being brave.

This wasn't Harry's single-minded conviction, marching straight into danger because _it was the right thing to do_. This wasn't Hermione's worried resolve, jaw set and chin up against all odds. This wasn't Ron's unconditional loyalty, at his friends' backs regardless of the risk. This was something shivering and sharp and spiteful and all his own, but it was bravery all the same.

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This was Dumbledore's office, a week after the Forbidden Forest. This was Harry at his right hand, blurting out what they both knew.

"It was Voldemort, sir."

This was Ron and Hermione at their backs, flinching at the name. This was Draco, feeling a shiver run up his spine and saying,

"The third floor."

And suddenly everyone's eyes were on him. Dumbledore watched him over the top of his half-moon spectacles, eyes twinkling.

"What was that, Mr. Malfoy?" he asked mildly.

And Draco swallowed. And Draco thought of his parents, talking about the Dark Lord, talking about his genius and his majesty and his power. And Draco thought of Hermione, helping him with his Charms essay. And Draco thought of Harry, who didn't get letters. And Draco thought, _I have to be brave._

"The third floor," he repeated. "He's after whatever's in the third floor corridor."

"I see," said Dumbledore, as if he saw quite a bit indeed. "In that case, the matter should certainly be looked into. Thank you."

It was an obvious dismissal. They didn't hear any more on the matter, but at the end of term the corridor was reopened.

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This was Flourish and Blotts, the summer before second year. This was Father, casting snide glances at Hermione's parents, making comments about Ron's sister's schoolbooks, about Mr. Weasley's job. This was Hermione meeting his eyes even as she flushed pink, Ron's ears turning scarlet, Harry's teeth gritted, and blood rushing in Draco's ears in embarrassment and fury.

This was Draco, reacting.

"Father! You're being –"

"Yes, Draco?" said Father, and raised an eyebrow at him, and Draco had never had that look turned on him before, so cold and dismissive. The shivering thing inside him shrank back.

But there were other looks on him, as well. Hermione, wary and hopeful. Ron's sister, sharp and evaluating. Ron, surprised and waiting. And Harry, bright and challenging. _Well?_ They all seemed to say.

And Draco squared his jaw, and straightened his back, and said,

"You're being perfectly vile. It's – it's unseemly. These are my friends."

It felt surprisingly good. But only for a moment, because Father's lip curled as his eyes swept over the ragtag group.

"Yes, well," he said, dropping Ron's sister's books back in her cauldron and wiping his hand on his robes as if he had touched something dirty. "I suppose we've all made mistakes in our youth. Come along, Draco."

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This was the beginning of second year, and the Feelings were getting worse. Hermione pursed her lips and tactfully called them his 'little moments' and researched thoroughly in her spare time. Ron rolled his eyes at her, said it was probably just coincidence, and asked whether he had any Seer blood in him. Harry shrugged and said, "It's magic, right?"

This was a flooded corridor and a paralyzed cat and blood-red writing on the wall, and Draco heard his own voice say, "You'll be next, Mudbloods!" But he was the only one who recoiled, so it must have been only his head. And Harry was hearing voices, too, voices in the walls, voices talking about blood and death and Draco wasn't sure that this was magic at all.

This was an explanation: Harry was a parseltongue, and Draco was mad. But that didn't explain why he was right, always, why he knew that Hermione had been attacked a moment before McGonagall opened her mouth, why he knew that Hagrid didn't have a single thing to do with it, why he knew, knew, knew _he had to be brave._

It did, maybe, explain why he followed Harry and Ron into the slimy depths of the Chamber. After all, Gryffindor or not, that was definitely madness. But Ron's sister was in danger, and Harry was going no matter what. What else was he supposed to do?

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This was McGonagall's office, after everything. This was his parents, white-faced, waiting. This was his mother sinking into a chair with her hand on her heart, his father moving forward jerkily to grip his shoulders. Distantly, Draco was aware of Ron's parents rushing to embrace their children, but mostly he was listening to his father's voice waver for the first time in his memory.

"Draco! Of all the foolhardy – of all the reckless –"

"I'm alright, Father."

"Yes. Yes . . ." Father agreed. He smoothed Draco's hair, brushed some of the dust from his robes. He drew in a breath, and visibly regained his composure. He rounded on Dumbledore. "I, for one, would like to know _precisely_ how this sort of travesty would be allowed to occur in a supposed institution of learning."

"I think we would all like to know what happened," Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers. His eyes landed on Harry, still soaked in blood and slime, still holding the sword and the diary.

Harry took a deep breath, and began to speak. He spoke and spoke and spoke, the parts Draco knew and the parts he didn't, and then he stopped. Harry's eyes flickered to Ginny, and then to the diary, and then, strangely, to Draco. And Dumbledore was saying something about Voldemort, and Harry was explaining, about the diary and possession and a school age Dark Lord, and Father said,

"I will personally be investigating how such a dangerous magical object was able to find its way into a school, of all places."

And everyone's eyes were on him, but Harry's eyes were on something else – on Dobby. And Draco watched his house elf point from the diary, so Father, from the diary, to Father. And he watched his father's hands clench and unclench, and suddenly, he understood.

"Father?" he said, or tried to say, but the word died in his throat. He had to be brave, but he didn't feel brave at all, and his father – his _father_ – was standing there tall and stern and righteously indignant and Harry said,

"Do you want to know how Ginny got a hold of that diary, Mr. Malfoy?"

And Father rounded on him, nearly shaking, and spat,

"How should I know how the girl got a hold of it?"

But he knew, he knew, and Draco knew and Harry knew and everyone knew and Mother's mouth was pressed into a thin, furious line; Father's hands were balled into fists.

"Oh, no one will be able to prove anything at all, I'm quite sure," Dumbledore said, a hand stilling Mrs. Weasley as she began to rear up like a lioness. He was smiling at Harry as if this were all a pleasant diversion and not Draco's entire world tilting on its axis. "Not now that Riddle has vanished from the book. On the other hand, Lucius, I hope these unintended consequences will give you pause if you should ever happen upon any more of Lord Voldemort's old school things."

Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.

"Quite," he said tightly. "And I would tread cautiously, Lucius. I doubt you'd be so lucky again. Come on, Ginny. Hospital Wing."

Draco watched her go. She looked very small, her filthy hair falling into her pale and tearstained face, her shoulders hunched in her secondhand robes. _She could have died,_ he thought. He looked down at his own hands, scraped and bruised from trying to shift rocks. _I could have died._

He looked up at his father.

He took a step back.

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He went to the Hospital Wing, and stepped up to the end of Ginny's bed.

"I'm sorry," he said, and that was bravery, too.

"For what?" she asked. "Not your fault your dad's an evil git."

And she smiled a small, wounded smile, and he smiled one, too.


	4. Chapter 4

On the train at the beginning of third year, there was a stranger in their compartment. It was a man, young but graying and sickly looking, his robes patched and his trunk held together with twine. Professor R. J. Lupin, it read. Draco glanced at him, did a double-take, and thought, _Werewolf._

Which was absurd. And, really, a horrible thing to think about someone he hadn't even met properly.

He put the thought out of his mind.

Harry had something to tell them.

Sirius Black was trying to kill him.

Ron went very white. Hermione was talking very fast. Draco tried to find a similar horror within himself, but all he could think was, _that's not right._

"'Course it's not," said Ron, and Draco realized he had spoken aloud. "But he's mad, isn't he? Can't expect him to make any sense."

"No, I mean –" Draco stopped. What did he mean? "It's not – I mean, it doesn't –" It wasn't true, was what he wanted to say, but there was nothing to back it up, nothing but a gut feeling and an image in his head of a black dog at the train station.

There was a long silence. The young man with gray hair shifted in his sleep. Ron cleared his throat.

"Right," said Ron at last. "Good news is, Draco's still bonkers."

Hermione elbowed him in the ribs; he protested loudly; she shushed him with an eye on the man in the corner; and then they were at it again, Draco's first little moment of the school year quickly forgotten.

The train began to slow.

They couldn't be there yet, they all agreed.

Harry got up to see what was going on, and Draco felt his stomach drop into his shoes a moment before the lights went out.

And then it was – Neville, Ginny, the temperature dropping rapidly, _sit down, not here, I'm here,_ Crookshanks yowling, Neville yelping, and then, suddenly, a raspy voice from the corner –

"Quiet!"

They fell silent. Professor Lupin was on his feet, a handful of magical fire throwing the scars on his face into sharp relief. He moved towards the door, wand out.

It slid open.

And then –

And then –

It was like his nightmares; deeper than that; despair clawing into his chest; people were screaming; someone was calling Harry's name with an anguish that matched his own – distantly, he knew that Ginny was shaking beside him, that Harry was slipping to the floor, but his ears were filled with Hermione's shrieks of pain and his aunt's cackles, and someone said – someone said –

"None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go."

And then there was silver, and the _thing_ was . . . leaving. Gone.

Hermione immediately dropped down beside Harry, tapping his face.

"Harry. Harry!"

Draco felt he should be helping, but he still felt weak and shaky, not quite there. He had heard – he'd never even met his aunt, but he had heard her – and the screaming – and Harry –

 _Harry was limp in Hagrid's arms, unmoving, glasses askew, so so small, gone, gone gone –_

Harry was sitting up, pushing his glasses back onto his face, being helped back into his seat.

"I'm okay. What happened? Where's that thing? Who screamed?"

"No one screamed," said Ron nervously.

"No, I heard it too," said Draco, hearing his own voice from far away, and Hermione was –

 _Hermione was screaming, screaming, screaming, and this wasn't what he wanted, never what he wanted –_

Hermione was looking at him oddly. 

A loud crack made them all jump. It was Lupin, breaking apart a large slab of chocolate.

"Eat it," he instructed, handing out pieces to each of them. "It will help."

And Draco looked up at him and he thought, _werewolf,_ and he thought, _teacher,_ and he thought, _a patient voice and a warning cock of an eyebrow and an unexpectedly sympathetic look_ and he didn't know what to feel at all and his stomach turned.

"What was that thing?"

"A dementor," said Lupin. "One of the dementors of Azkaban. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe I need to have a word with the driver."

"Wait," said Draco, without knowing why, except that he trusted this man, this – werewolf, he was a werewolf, but he spoke kindly to a thirteen-year-old full of teenage cruelty who Draco would never be, and Draco's head was reeling as he struggled to get to his feet, wrangling memories that weren't his own –

And Lupin said,

"Are you alright?"

And Harry said,

"Draco?"

And Ron said,

"Merlin!"

And Draco was grasping at the wall for support but he had words in his head, images, sensations – _a black dog at the train station, a taunt on his lips, a man with a shining silver hand –_ and somehow Lupin needed to know –

"Some – some people feel like fear," Draco said, "some people – but not him. Not Black. It's not right. The rat – the rat is the rat."

And someone was trying to push him gently back into his seat, but Lupin was staring at him, eyes wide and face pale, and he said, very softly,

"The rat . . ."

And Scabbers was squeaking desperately in Ron's hands, and Lupin turned towards him, and said,

"Peter?"

And Draco thought – _black hoods burning skin red eyes high laughter fear fear fear –_ and then he didn't think anything at all.

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When he woke up, he was in the Hospital Wing, and Professor Dumbledore was sitting beside his bed.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy. Or should I say, Messrs. Malfoy?"

Good question. Draco frowned, probing at the depths which had so long been a mystery to him. No, it was just him. Just him, but with a brand new set of memories; a life of prejudice and pettiness turned to fear and desperation. Not another being, not really; not the young man who had given up a bleak future for a second chance. Just . . . echoes.

And Draco looked at Dumbledore, and he saw a man who was prepared to let a terrified teenager kill him. And he thought, _my father got a trial and Black didn't._ And he said,

"What are you talking about?"

Something flashed through Dumbledore's eyes, something like disappointment, but it was gone as soon as it came.

"Just the flight of fancy of an old man. That was quite a bit of excitement on the train. More than the Express has seen for many years, I dare say."

"Is everyone alright?" Draco asked, sitting up straighter.

"A few bumps and bruises, but no worse for wear. Though I believe Professor Lupin went for a nice soothing cup of tea. It was rather a shock for him, to see his old friend under the circumstances."

"Pettigrew?"

"Safely in Ministry custody."

"And Black?"

"Being issued a full pardon as we speak. And, I would imagine, being offered significant monetary compensation for injustices suffered."

"Draco!"

That was Harry, in the doorway, running towards him, Ron and Hermione on his heels. They all skidded to a stop as they noticed Dumbledore, who was smiling benignly at the display.

"Well, then, Mr. Malfoy, I shall leave you in these capable hands," he said, standing. "Unless, of course, there is anything you wish to tell me?"

Draco met his eyes.

"No, sir."

Some people felt like fear. Dumbledore was one of them.


	5. Interlude I

The house that Narcissa stepped up to was not the ancestral House of Black. It was not, by its appearance, the ancestral house of anyone at all. The small country cottage looked more like a summer home than a permanent residence. And yet, Narcissa reminded herself even as she wrinkled her nose at the overgrown walkway, this was where her cousin had chosen to continue their family's legacy, such as it was.

She rapped on the door.

"It's open!"

She repressed a sigh at her cousin's incorrigible lack of manners, and let herself in.

"Ah, Cissy," Sirius greeted her.

He is not the boy she remembered. His hands and his face were thin, verging on gaunt; his eyes were more haunted than wild. But there was the mischievous schoolboy in his roguish grin; the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black in the way his spine straightened when she stepped inside.

"Oh, do you mind?" he said, gesturing towards their feet. "Remus is a bit fussy about the floors."

Ah, yes. Remus Lupin. The werewolf her son spoke so highly of. She tried to imagine a fussy werewolf, and failed. She slipped off her shoes anyway. It didn't do, after all, to insult one's host, especially when one was asking for a favor.

"How is Remus?" Narcissa asked.

"Fine. He took Harry to see a film. Muggle thing, you wouldn't understand."

"I would expect not," she agreed frostily.

"Have a seat," he said, waving towards the well-scrubbed kitchen table. "Have some tea. Then maybe you can tell me what this is all about."

She sat. Sirius poured the tea and put an absurd amount of sugar into his own. The cups and saucers were mismatched and the kettle was chipped, but he moved with an aristocratic elegance which twelve years in Azkaban and all his best efforts had been unable to erode. That was . . . comforting.

"Alright, Narcissa. What do you want?"

She stirred her tea, considering her words carefully.

"Pettigrew has escaped."

Sirius tilted his head in acknowledgement, all traces of mirth fading from his eyes.

"He will rejoin the Dark Lord."

"In all likelihood," Sirius agreed.

"My son was incremental in obtaining your freedom. You owe him a debt. I am here to see that it is repaid."

Sirius' face darkened.

"I owe a debt to your son, not to you. You know as well as I do that he'll have to make his own choices. They all will."

Her hands were shaking. She set down her tea and pressed them to the table.

"He's only a child."

"So were we," Sirius said, and his shrug was almost casual. "No one could control us then and no one's going to control them now. Not the Ministry, not Dumbledore, certainly not us."

He was right, of course. Draco was as much a Black as he was a Malfoy, and, much to her dismay, as much a Gryffindor as he was either of them. Best friends with the Boy Who Lived, with a Weasley, with a Muggleborn. Careless associations at any time, but in the times that were surely to come . . .

 _Please,_ she wanted to say. _Please. Teach my son how to survive in your world._

But Sirius, she was beginning to understand, would not have known how. This was a man who had been pardoned and immediately taken a werewolf as a lover and the Dark Lord's archenemy as a ward. There was no room for survival in his world of honor and valor. Loyalty, defiance, pride, victory – but not survival. Never survival.

She stood.

"Thank you for your time. This has been . . . enlightening." Her voice did not shake. Still, there was something like pity in Sirius' eyes.

"He's a good kid, Narcissa. It's not going to be easy for good kids. But he'll have friends."

Friends. She wanted to laugh. _And where did friends get you, Sirius?_

"Good day, Sirius."

He inclined his head.

"Take care, Narcissa."

Take care. The words followed her out the door and down the walk, to the edge of the wards which crackled against her skin. The strongest wards in Britain, to protect the boy coming up the path in muggle clothes, kicking a rock in front of him with scuffed trainers. She nodded to him curtly as he passed, and he glanced back at her, eyes blazing green in the midday sun, lightning scar stark white against his dark skin.

 _Friends_ , she thought again as she apparated away.

Yes, Draco would have friends.

For better or for worse.


	6. Chapter 5

This was Draco's summer:

He wrote to his friends and flew over the grounds. He did his homework and didn't speak to his parents. He took the floo to Diagon Alley when he could get away with it, spending hours perusing the same shops over and over. He kept busy.

And when he wasn't busy, he remembered.

He remembered "Weasley is Our King" and taunts thrown across hallways and classrooms and Quidditch stadiums; he remembered pale and tearful faces across the shattered Great Hall, surrounding a stocky ginger body that would never move again.

He remembered "Nobody asked you, you filthy little mudblood," and it nearly made him sick; he remembered her screams of agony under Cruciatus and it did make him sick, dry heaving into the toilet at two in the morning.

He remembered _Sectumsempra_ and bleeding on the bathroom floor; he remembered Fiend Fire and clinging tighter than he ever had to anyone or anything, sick with fear and a love so intertwined with shame and jealousy that it was very nearly hatred.

He remembered –

He remembered –

It was seven hours since Harry's godfather nearly got in a fistfight with Draco's father in the top box over a snide comment about silver daggers; six since Krum caught the snitch and ended the Quidditch World Cup just like Draco remembered. It was past midnight and he was standing frozen on the edge forest, eyes fixed on the muggles held aloft over the masked heads and feeling like he was going to be sick –

"Draco!"

Someone was shaking his shoulder. Draco met a pair of bright green eyes and thought _Harry._

"Is he okay?"

And that was Ron, hovering nervously behind Harry, Hermione at his side –

"Draco," Harry repeated, shaking his shoulder again. "Come on, we've got to move."

"Right," Draco said, and took a stumbling step backwards. It wasn't safe. Hermione wasn't safe. "The muggles . . ."

"Sirius and Remus went to help," Harry said. "And Bill and Charlie and Percy, and Mr. Weasley."

No one asked where his parents were, and he was so, so grateful.

"Come on," Harry repeated, and grabbed his hand.

It was first year all over again, stumbling through the forest, shaking with a fear he couldn't quite explain, except he remembered – he remembered –

They were slowing to a halt in an empty clearing. Harry dropped his hand. Draco shivered at the loss.

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked him, frowning. "Are you remembering something?"

"Yeah," Draco said, eyes on the sky. "I think the muggles will be okay, but . . . I don't know, last time around – something bad happened. I'm trying to remember –"

"I can't find my wand," Harry said, and Draco's stomach dropped into his toes a split-second before –

" _Morsmodre!_ "

And the Dark Mark was in the sky and people were screaming and Draco was staring up at it in horror and Harry grabbing his arm was the only thing keeping him upright and then the was the pop-pop-pop of apparation and Harry said "Get down!" and they all dropped as bolts of magic sizzled the air over their heads and –

"Stop! Stop, that's my son!"

"Harry! Stop, dammit! Harry!"

And that was Mr. Weasley, running towards them, and Sirius, pushing through the Aurors with Remus on his heels.

"I'm fine," Harry said, pushing himself to his feet. "Sirius, get off, I'm fine," he repeated, while Sirius brushed at the dirt on his clothes.

"Everyone alright?" Remus asked, helping Hermione to her feet. "Ron? Draco? Hermione?"

"Out of the way," said Mr. Crouch, closing in on them with the other Ministry officials, wand in his hand. "Which of you did it?" he snapped. "Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?"

"We didn't do that!" Harry protested.

"We didn't do anything!" Ron added. "What did you attack us for?"

Sirius' lips had thinned into a furious line, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Weasley interjected quickly.

"Where did the Mark come from?"

"Over there," said Hermione, pointing into the trees. "There was someone back there – they shouted words – an incantation –"

"Oh, stood over there, did they? Said an incantation, did they?"

"Oh, bugger off, Barty," said Sirius, pushing his wand away from Hermione's face. "How are a bunch of kids meant to conjure the Dark Mark?"

"Out Stunners went right through those trees," Amos Diggory was saying. "There's a good chance we got them . . ."

He moved to investigate, and he found something, an elf, Crouch's elf, but that wasn't right, something was wrong, Draco was trying to remember –

"It wasn't her," he said. "It was a man's voice."

"Well of course it wasn't her," Sirius agreed. "She wouldn't know how to do it any more than this lot would."

"Well, she did have a wand," said Mr. Diggory. "That's clause three of the Code of Wand Use broken, for a start." He held the wand up to the light.

"Hey!" said Harry. "That's mine!"

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Excuse me?" said Mr. Diggory.

"That's my wand. I dropped it."

"You dropped it? Is this a confession? You threw it aside after you conjured the Mark?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Sirius spat. "Don't be an arse, Amos. Why would Harry Potter conjure the Dark Mark?"

"Er – right, sorry," muttered Mr. Diggory, gaze skittering away from Sirius' glare. "Got carried away."

"For that matter, why would an elf conjure the Dark Mark?" Remus pointed out reasonably.

"We'll find out," said Mr. Diggory grimly, pointing his wand at the elf. "Ennervate!"

And then the elf was crying, and Diggory was shouting, and Hermione was shouting too, and Crouch was furious and Diggory was embarrassed and the elf was being sacked and Remus took Draco's shoulder and said gently,

"Why don't you come back to the tent with us, Draco,"

And Draco allowed them to guide him back through the forest but his eyes stayed on the sky and he thought,

 _It's starting. It's starting. It's starting._


	7. Chapter 6

It wasn't like he remembered.

He heard from Father that Dumbledore was performing identity checks on everyone who came into the castle, and he let out a silent sigh of relief. His letter had done the trick, then – and anonymous note, in French, informing the Headmaster that not all was as it seemed among his staff.

The only problem was, no imposters were found.

"So that's good then, right?" Ron said when he told them. "No imposters means no one trying to kill Harry."

"Don't be thick, Ron," Hermione snapped. "Of course You-Know-Who's still going to try to kill Harry."

"Thanks," Harry muttered.

"It just means he's come up with a different plan," Hermione continued. "I mean, Pettigrew knows what Draco can do, doesn't he? Or at least he knows that he somehow managed to detect him. So whatever he told You-Know-Who must have changed the plan he came up with."

Draco met Harry's eyes, and saw his own fear reflected back at him.

.

.

.

This was different:

Harry was not in the tournament.

This was the same:

The others were; Krum and the Veela girl and Cedric Diggory.

"Hufflepuff pretty boy," Ron grumbled, and Harry made a noise of agreement, but Draco thought of a cold, still body, and Mr. Diggory's cries, and Harry's stricken, tearstained face, and he didn't say anything at all.

.

.

.

This was the same:

Harry's scar hurt. No one knew what to do about it. Everyone was worried.

This was different:

Dumbledore had fought to keep Harry with his Aunt and Uncle. No one suggested he be told.

.

.

.

This was different:

Rita Skeeter wrote exactly one article about Harry, a wildly speculative opinion piece about the state of things when the savior of the wizarding world could be allowed to be raised by a known werewolf. Sirius wrote a strongly worded letter to the Minister of Magic, who owed him twelve years' worth of favors. Rita Skeeter reluctantly moved on.

This was different:

Professor Moody was the real thing. He showed them the Unforgivables and Neville shook and Harry froze and Draco felt bile rise in his throat and Professor Moody didn't care and didn't ask and didn't give Neville anything.

This was different:

Harry received letters every Saturday and wrote back religiously, even if it was only a sentence or two. Draco received letters less and less frequently and sometimes didn't read them at all.

This was different:

Draco sat in the stands with Harry and Hermione and Ron and they cheered and gasped and rooted for Cedric and it was all good fun, even though Hermione complained half-heartedly about how dangerous it was. Ron's brother Charlie waved at them all from where the dragon handlers stood in wait just off the stadium. Cedric won.

This was different:

Draco did not watch Harry across halls and classrooms and animosity. Draco was there when Harry threw off Imperius, and when he stared down Snape, and when he tried desperately to find something positive about the Skrewts. He was right there beside him. He was close enough to touch.

This was the same:

Draco felt himself falling, and thought,

 _Fuck._


	8. Chapter 7

"So who are you going to the ball with?"

.

.

.

"No one," Draco said, and Ron grimaced in sympathy.

"Yeah, me neither, at this rate. Wouldn't be a problem if Hermione weren't being so stubborn about it. Won't stop pretending she's already got a date."

"She does already have a date," said Draco, and, feeling mean-spirited, he added, "She's going with Krum."

.

.

.

"No one," Draco said, and Blaise Zabini's eyes glinted.

"Go with me, then."

And Draco thought of how Harry looked at Cho, and the fuss everyone would make if he went with a Slytherin, and the fuss his parents would make if he went with a Zabini, and he looked at Blaise's dark eyes and high cheekbones and he very nearly said yes.

"Sorry," he said instead, hating himself a little for it. "I can't."

.

.

.

"No one," Draco said, and Ginny followed his gaze across the common room to a familiar head of charmingly messy hair.

"Oh. You too, huh?"

"Yeah," Draco admitted, and it tasted like freedom on his tongue. "Yeah, me too."

.

.

.

No one, no one, no one. Ron and Harry ended up going with the Patil twins, and Parvati said she'd be happy to find him a date, too; Padma knew this really nice Ravenclaw boy, a little shy, but she thought they'd be a good fit –

"No thanks," Draco cut her off, a little more sharply than intended.

No one, no one, no one; Hermione looked gorgeous and even Ron managed not to look horrendous but Draco couldn't take his eyes off Harry, looking a little lost in his bottle green robes, stumbling awkwardly through a dance, face flushed, hair still a mess.

"So that's what you meant when you said you couldn't," someone said in his ear, and Draco jumped. It was Blaise, looking more elegant than any fourteen-year-old had a right to, white robes in stark contrast against dark skin, gold trim shimmering in the light. "You really are a Gryffindor. Only a fool would fall for him. He's a deathtrap."

Draco stared up into deep brown eyes and didn't disagree. Blaise smiled, and held out a hand.

"Want to dance?"

Draco took his hand.

.

.

.

Somewhere between the dance floor and the gardens, Blaise said,

"It's okay if you're thinking about him."

Which was good, because Draco was. And when they kissed, Blaise was too practiced and too confident and much too tall, and Draco was glad when Snape broke them apart with a sneer and a warning.

.

.

.

When he got back to the common room, Ron and Hermione were rowing again. Harry was standing on the sidelines, looking at a loss. Parvati was nowhere in sight.

"Hi," Draco said.

"Hi," Harry replied, and looked sideways at him curiously.

"Krum?" Draco asked, self-consciously straightening his robes.

"Yeah." Harry had a question in his eyes, but he wasn't voicing it. Draco had a declaration in his throat, but he would choke before he let it out.

"I'm going to bed," Draco said abruptly.

.

.

.

Draco lay in bed and stared at the canopy and thought about Unforgivables and scars and wars. He thought, _he could die._ He thought, _we could both die._ He was a fourteen-year-old with an ill-advised crush on his best friend, but they could both die and then what, what? This was what they would have had? Draco's longing and their mutual silence and dancing with other people?

The door creaked open.

"Draco?" said Harry, hesitant, questioning.

Draco nearly bit through his tongue in the effort to keep silent.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes: I know this took a long time and also it's really short, sorry for that. I'll be working on the next installment but my health has been really unpredictable lately so we'll just have to see how it goes. Thanks for sticking with me, and as always, let me know what you think!**

.

.

.

Fact: Draco fancied Harry.

Fact: Harry had the approximate social awareness of a dead crustacean.

It was fine. Draco was fine. As long as he didn't declare his love in the middle of the Great Hall, or seize Harry by the shoulders and kiss him passionately, Harry would never know, so it was fine. He could live with the constant ache in his chest. He was fine.

"You're being dramatic," Ginny informed him, one evening when everyone else was asleep and he was splayed out face down in front of the Common Room fire, feeling sorry for himself.

"I know," he replied, a received a mouthful of carpet for his efforts.

.

.

.

Fact: Voldemort was going to try to kill Harry.

Fact: no one knew when, or where, or how.

This was extremely not fine, in Draco's opinion. His stomach did summersaults every time Harry was out of sight unexpectedly. He was sure it was doing horrible things to his blood pressure.

Everyone was worried, of course. He caught Hermione looking at Harry with her brow creased and her lip between her teeth when he wasn't looking; saw Ron offer to go with him to the library or the bathroom. Sirius and Remus began writing twice a week, their reassurances belied by their urging for caution. Harry rolled his eyes, but Draco knew he sat awake some nights, one hand rubbing at his scar while the other clutched his wand.

Everyone was worried. No one knew what to do. So they waited, and waited, and waited. And nothing happened. And nothing happened. And nothing happened.

.

.

.

Fact: they had made it to the end of the schoolyear without anyone killing Harry.

Fact: Draco had stood at the train station and watched Harry walk off, grinning, with Sirius.

Correction: with someone who looked like Sirius.

Fact: Sirius was pounding on the door of Malfoy Manor. Fact: Draco's breath was coming in short, painful gasps. Fact: Harry was missing. Sirius and Remus had fought – it was the only reason they were still alive – but they hadn't been ready; Remus was still weak from the full moon; they had woken up with aching heads and dry mouths in the King's Cross car lot hours after the train arrived. And now Sirius needed to know: did Draco know where they would have taken Harry?

He didn't know, he didn't know; Voldemort would have changed his plans; he was cleverer than that –

Except he wasn't, was he? He was vicious and powerful and charismatic, and yes, clever, but not like Dumbledore, not even like Hermione. And the drama, the narrative of his greatest enemy strapped to his Muggle father's gravestone – clever, yes, but not more so than he was prideful. And if he thought Draco's insight was merely in seeing through disguises . . . .

"The cemetery," he said. "Where his father is buried."

.

.

.

He waited, and waited, and waited. And he thought, _he could die; he could die; he could die._ And his eyes were dry but his hands were shaking, and his mother pressed him close and he didn't ask where his father was.

.

.

.

In the small hours of the morning Sirius' owl brought a note in Remus' handwriting, and Draco was tumbling headlong through the floo before he even absorbed its meaning. And there was Harry, sitting at the kitchen table, bruised and battered but so, so alive. And Sirius was there, and Remus, and Dumbledore, and the Minister of Magic himself, and Draco saw Harry's eyes light up at the sight of him, and in an instant he was kissing him.

And Harry's lips were hot and chapped, and they tasted like blood and sweat, and Draco thought, _we could die; we could die; we could die,_ and for the first time in both his lives he felt brave.

Someone cleared their throat.

Draco felt himself flush as they broke apart, and Harry was turning red, as well, but he was grinning a little, and he took Draco's hand and pulled him down into the chair beside him, and he didn't let go.


	10. Interlude II

Remus breathed slowly and carefully, consciously preventing his fingers from tightening around the teacup in his hands. Breathe in for four seconds, out for seven. In for four, out for seven. Harry was safe. Sirius was safe. It would be alright.

In for four, out for seven. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

With silent, easy steps, he made his way to the sitting room.

In sleep, illuminated only by the glow of the dying embers in the fireplace, Draco Malfoy looked as ephemeral as a phantom. Harry slept curled against him as if to anchor him to reality, the scrapes on his arms and the crease between his brows a harsh reminder of the events of the day.

In for four, out for seven.

A shift in the air alerted him to Sirius' presence before his voice settled warmly in his ears.

"They kind of remind you of us, don't they?"

Remus kept his gaze on the boys, and didn't respond. Fudge hadn't wanted to accept Voldemort's return. Sirius had smiled that smile that had made even Remus doubt his innocence, and reminded the Minister of just who he was talking to, and just how easily a handsome man with a tragic story could shift the public's opinion, and just how much worse an outraged public was than a panicked one.

Draco shifted in his sleep, pulling Harry closer.

They had their own demons, these children of a war that never really ended. They had their own jagged edges and scars, not the bitterness of Remus' illness or the poison of Sirius' family. And they would acquire more in the days to come.

In for four, out for seven.

Tomorrow, Voldemort's return would be every headline. Tomorrow, panicked letters would flood in from the Weasleys, from Hermione, from people they hadn't spoken to in years. Tomorrow, Dumbledore would come to ask things of them which they could not give. Tomorrow –

Remus's breathing stuttered, caught.

In for four, out for seven.

Sirius noticed. He slipped behind him, wrapped his arms around his waist, pressed a gentle kiss to his neck.

"They're not going to separate us. Not this time."

And Sirius said it, as he said everything, like a fact, like a divine proclamation. But he had said other things. So had Remus. Things they both believed. And then they didn't.

Draco remembered a different life. A different world. And he didn't say, and Remus didn't ask, but the way he looked at them sometimes . . . . And Remus thought of all the choices and the worlds they created, and all the ways they must have come together and fallen apart – the four of them, and the two of them, and Lily, and Harry. All the ways Peter left, all the ways James died, all the ways Sirius and Remus lost faith. All the ways Harry grew up parentless and unloved. There but for . . .

"I can hear you thinking," Sirius said, voice low in his ear, body warm against his back. "Don't get all maudlin on me now."

Different worlds. There were others, too. Worlds where they never lost faith. Worlds without the war. Worlds where they didn't miss a single solitary second of Harry's life, or each other's. And here, in this world, there was Sirius, and Harry, and the boy who had saved them all.

Remus leaned back into Sirius' embrace, and breathed easily.


End file.
